Jaxale
Jaxale sat in silence as the others argued, debated, theorized, and spiraled.
He listened—he truly did—but at some point the names and myths and histories blurred into one long thread that twisted itself into knots.
When Imp finished reading Talengar's ancient words and sank into quiet contemplation over the journal, Jaxale realized two things:
1. Everyone assumed he understood what they were talking about.
2. He very much did not.
So he stood up—quietly, politely—and left.
The tower's halls were strange and winding, full of shifting geometry, floating candles, and whispering stone walls that probably were not supposed to whisper. Jaxale walked anyway, letting his mind churn.
He wasn't stupid, and he hated when others treated him like he was.
He simply lacked the history they were all drowning in.
He'd been in this world for only a few months, but in that short time he'd learned a great deal about the so-called heroes.
Grodak—a foolish king in many ways, yet driven by a genuine longing for peace. Involving himself only when pushed, even when perhaps he should step forward.
Imp—a frightening genius who carried more secrets than his tower had rooms.
Adrian—a courageous fool, but a fool nonetheless. A man whose heart seemed to lead him into and out of disaster with equal efficiency.
Tyril—an ancient king wrapped in dignity and restraint.
Cassandra—Jaxale refused to think about her. Every time her name entered his mind, cold claws scraped down his spine.
And then there was Grall.
A walking contradiction.
He had expected arrogance, but instead found a man—no, a god—who chased death like a lover, who mourned a woman endlessly, who bore centuries of pain without crumbling. A once-mortal god, a banished chieftain, a cursed wanderer, a guardian of a realm he hadn't asked for.
And after hearing Imp's words…
Jaxale wasn't sure Grall wasn't the Reaper.
"I don't even know who this Marik is," he muttered aloud, stopping at a window overlooking the swirling mist around the tower.
No answers came.
---
Grall
Grall emerged from the cave, the air of the present clinging to him like a cold sheet. Talengar's last revelations echoed in his mind—twisted truths, unfinished sentences, broken memories.
He and his brother… adopted by Talengar? Perhaps.
A wife lost? Or was he the killer?
Madness inevitable? Or avoidable?
It was like trying to solve a riddle when half the words had been chewed off the page.
If I was the one to fall into madness, then why haven't I yet?
If the cycle always leads me to despair, what changed this time?
Was it the Shadow World? The banishment? Her?
No answer satisfied him.
He wandered, thinking too deeply, until he realized a thick fog had swallowed the world. Even with true sight his vision dissolved into gray.
Grall exhaled through his nose in annoyance.
He was rarely careless, but today his mind had strayed too far.
He raised his hand to tear open a path to the Shadow World—
A roar split the fog.
Low. Deep. Ancient.
A dragon.
Grall's smile sharpened.
"…Perfect," he murmured, gripping the twin swords Grodak had gifted him. "I've been wanting to test these."
The fog trembled as something massive stirred.
Grall took a step forward, blades humming.
---
Imp
Hours of debate left Imp wishing he could carve logic into the walls.
Marik's resurrection, the Reaper's identity, Talengar's cryptic warnings—arguments spiraled until even the dragons grew restless.
Eventually they disbanded.
Imp returned to his desk, expecting quiet.
He almost dropped his tea when Jaxale wandered back in.
"I thought everyone was sent home," Imp said, glancing at Dorothy. She made a tiny metallic squeak that might have been embarrassment.
"Where would you send me?" Jaxale asked honestly.
Imp frowned. "The house I gave you in Ethernal."
"Yes," Jaxale said. "But I… do not wish to be eaten."
Imp blinked. "Explain."
"Your city," Jaxale said, "fell into… chaos. The food spoiled when you vanished. People fought. Some… ate the dead."
Imp stared.
"…They became cannibals because my preservation spell wore off?" he whispered, horrified.
Jaxale shrugged. "I did not stay to see the outcome."
Imp pushed past him, muttering curses under his breath. He teleported straight to Ethernal—
Only to find himself standing between two armies.
The Dasari and the Pyroniams had converged on the city, weapons raised, both preparing for war.
Imp sighed. Loudly.
"This is going to be a long day."
---
Grislo
Grislo had always considered himself a warrior of honor.
Not one of those mercenaries who sold themselves like cheap steel.
But the band he served now was different—they chose their battles. They protected the weak. They refused to be bought by cruelty.
Grislo owed them his life, saved years ago on a road soaked in blood. He had stayed first to repay his debt. Then he stayed because he believed in them.
Their latest mission, hunting down stolen goods, felt wrong to him. But the leader claimed it was safer if they handled it rather than a less honorable group.
Grislo trusted him.
He should not have.
The group they tracked was no caravan of thieves.
Vampires. Two lords. Three wraiths.
A warband of nightmares.
He charged anyway.
Steel met fang—then a sharp pain pierced his chest. Grislo looked down at the furred arm protruding through him, the claws of the white Tabaxi vampire lord.
His sword fell. Darkness swallowed him.
When he opened his eyes, gray ash swirled around him. Orcs wandered past like drifting ghosts.
Grislo realized where he was.
Terror squeezed his gut.
The Shadow World.
The prison of his people.
The realm ruled by the banished chieftain.
Grislo braced himself for screams, whips, torment.
Instead he heard… training. Laughter. Storytelling.
Before he could make sense of it, an armored figure appeared—peeling off pieces of his armor and tossing them aside. Orcish skin beneath, mottled and shifting as though reality hadn't finished sculpting him.
Grislo backed away, sword trembling.
Another presence appeared behind him. Grislo spun, ready to strike—
His blade dropped.
Wreag.
The legendary Wreag. The one said to be Talengar reborn. The one whose death had sparked myths.
Wreag placed a steadying hand on Grislo's shoulder.
"Do not fear, young soul," Wreag said, though his gaze stayed fixed on the armored figure.
"That is Grall—chieftain of none, guardian of the Shadow World."
"Guardian?" Grislo whispered sharply. "How can the banished disgrace of our people guard anything?"
At that, Wreag finally looked at him.
Grislo felt the weight of a thousand years in that stare.
Anger? No. Something colder. Older.
"Grall became the Shadow World's keeper at birth," Wreag said softly. "We cannot take that burden from him. We would not dare."
Grislo followed Wreag's gaze back to Grall.
The god spoke to shades—calmly, gently—like a caretaker tending to lost children.
Grislo's breath caught.
Nothing in the stories had prepared him for this.
Grislo's voice cracked as he spoke, but he forced the words out anyway.
"B-but… doesn't he torture the souls trapped in the Shadow World?"
He hadn't meant to shout, yet panic sharpened every syllable. A crowd gathered, drawn like insects to blood.
"Isn't that why you fight beside him?" Grislo continued, stepping back as eyes fixed on him. "Even though this—" he gestured wildly, "—should be the place we rest?"
The crowd laughed. Not joyfully—more like the dry, scraping sound of bone dragged over stone. Grislo felt their mockery crawl over his skin.
But Wreag didn't laugh.
No, Wreag stood still, shoulders trembling—not from fear, but from the effort of restraining something much, much darker. His jaw clenched until Grislo feared it would crack.
"He has never forced anyone to do what they did not choose," Wreag said, voice low and vibrating with barely-contained fury. His eyes, normally tired and old, now burned with a crimson anger.
Wreag took one step toward Grislo, then another. The crowd fell silent.
"He made a mistake. A grievous one. But the true mistake…" Wreag's voice dropped to a gravelly whisper, "…was ours."
A shudder crawled down Grislo's spine.
"We ordered him to dispose of the tribe," Wreag continued, each word sounding like it was being torn from deep within him. "We told him it mattered little how it was done. We—elders, leaders, fools—gave him that command."
Wreag's breath trembled. "Other chieftains would have sent warriors to slaughter them. But he—Grall—wanted his tribe to live."
He exhaled harshly, a hollow, haunted sound. "I hated the method he used. Gods, I hated it. But I have watched Grodak since… and his hands are not clean. His methods, his magic—"
The crowd's disgust rippled outward like a sickness. Orcs who had once lifted Grodak's name now scowled at its mention, shadows clinging to their faces.
Grislo swallowed. "If… if Grodak uses magic… if he's so unclean… why let him lead?"
Wreag gave a bitter, hollow laugh. "For the same cursed reason I regret banishing my own blood." His voice broke, then hardened. "Because he—like Grall—does what he must to protect his people. Even if it damns him."
Grislo turned away, only to see Grall silently gathering the pieces of his armor—those he'd thrown earlier in a fit of frustration. His movements were stiff. Not with pain, but with a contained rage Grislo did not dare question.
When Grall opened a pathway—dark waters rippling like rotten silk—Wreag whispered, "And that… is a burden worse than any torture."
---
Grall
The pond's water bit into Grall's skin like a thousand needles. The cold was not refreshing—it was consuming… alive… like the water wanted him. Wanted to seep into him. Wanted to wear him like a skin.
He clenched his teeth and forced himself deeper until the burning subsided.
The acidic venom from the dragon still sizzled beneath his flesh.
The Shadow World couldn't heal this. Nothing tainted by that realm could.
He had summoned the greatest minds from beyond—old spirits with hollow voices and sunken eyes, whispering in riddles—and they had guided him to this pond. This pure place. This unnatural oasis carved into a dead desert.
"Cold cleanses. Cold mends. Cold feeds the wound so it may close."
He hated their voices. Hated the way they clung to him even after he dismissed them. As if eager to slip into his skin.
When he finally stepped from the pond, the air felt thicker. Watching.
The lone tree beside him creaked in a breeze he could not feel.
To his left, a kingdom rose from the sands, its silhouette jagged like broken teeth. Soldiers lined its gate, their armor glistening like insect shells.
Imp's kingdom, Grall thought.
Twelve days' journey, or four on horseback. And yet here it stood, breathing, humming, straining against something unseen.
He finished strapping on his swords and began walking.
The wind changed.
Not gradually—violently.
A roar erupted from the desert as a tornado split the horizon open, its spiraling maw swallowing the sky. Men screamed and fled, their silhouettes vanishing into the storm's hungry throat.
Grall dug in his heels, but the wind hit him like a giant's hand. Sand slashed across his armor. His feet left the ground. His body twisted mid-air.
His fury ignited.
With one bellow, he drew his two-handed sword and cut through the storm—not the wind, but the magic animating it. The spell shattered with a shriek.
And there, at the gate, stood Imp.
Alive. Whole. Breathing.
Grall stalked toward him, grabbed him by the jaw, and drove his fist into Imp's face with enough force to rattle the gate behind him.
Imp hit the ground, gasping, blood slipping down his chin like spilled ink.
"Nice to see you too…" he wheezed.
"Save it," Grall snarled, hauling him upright. "That punch was for Grodak. When you faked your—"
"Faked?" Imp choked out a laugh, then winced as blood dripped onto the sand. "I died, Grall. Dorothy built this body for me."
Grall glared at him. "You look the same."
Imp blinked. "What? No—my scales were blue. They're white now."
"I know colors, you idiot," Grall growled.
Then Imp froze. His eyes widened. He stared directly into Grall's gaze—into the places where eyes once were.
"What… are you seeing?"
Grall's smile was not kind. "Everything beneath. The truth under the flesh. The elders replaced my eyes with True Sight."
Imp's voice faltered. "So you don't see the body… you see the soul."
"You look wrong," Grall said flatly. "Wrong soul. Wrong shape. Wrong everything."
Imp swallowed hard.
"Stop studying me like some cursed specimen," Grall whispered, "or I'll do more than crack your jaw."
Imp bowed quickly. "Forgive me. You must understand—this changes everything."
"And you owe me answers."
Imp hesitated, something flickering behind his eyes. Something wary. Something terrified.
"I found the God-gem of Death," he said quietly. "You stole it. You stole its power. You stole the god's mantle."
"And saved the world by doing so."
"Not from him."
Grall stiffened. "The God of Death tried to end the cycle."
"He couldn't," Imp whispered. "Only one being can."
Grall's voice darkened. "The Reaper."
Imp stared at him as if Grall had spoken a curse. "How do you know that name?"
Grall didn't answer.
Imp's magic rose like a coiled serpent. "How. Do. You. Know."
Grall didn't want to say it. But the alternative was fighting the entire kingdom, and he wasn't in the mood.
"The Source spoke to me."
Imp went still.
"The Source… spoke."
"One sentence."
Imp leaned in, breath shallow. "What did it say?"
Grall's voice dropped to a quiet, dead whisper.
> "Beware… the Reaper is near."
The wind stopped.
The air died.
And deep beneath the sand, something ancient shifted… and smiled.